


Regaining Focus

by TheDarkMetalLady



Category: Gloryhammer
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Snowball Fight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-06 22:41:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20299111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDarkMetalLady/pseuds/TheDarkMetalLady
Summary: In the cleanup following a tragic battle, an ancient barbarian hero is left to help comfort an upset young prince.





	Regaining Focus

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt/request from anonymous on Tumblr.

On what appeared to be an otherwise normal winter afternoon in the Kingdom of Fife, the always-lively mighty citadel of Dundee was shockingly silent. The trade market was empty, lacking the merchants that always flocked the area, regardless of day or night and sun or snow; the streets were devoid of wandering peasants, street performers, or the occasional beggars; the castle grounds lacked any presence of training knights or studying scholars. It was as if the entire city was holding back its voice in silent mourning.

Within the palace walls, the Space Knights of Crail and Questlords of Inverness were working together to clean up the remnants of the previous night’s battle. Though the two organizations seldom got along, today they were putting their differences aside and working together following the tragedy that had wracked the great and beautiful city, the capital of the mighty kingdom both groups protected and hailed. Ulysses McDougal, the Lord of Questing, was there in person; similarly, Ser Regulon, the acting Grand Master of the Space Knights of Crail, was likewise present despite the great distance between his station at Triton and the mighty citadel.

On a large palace balcony overlooking the city, one completely and blessedly untouched by the night’s battle compared to the rest of the citadel, the Hootsman sat on a cracked stone bench that he had cleared of snow for himself. He had been in Cowdenbeath the previous day, visiting an old friend of his, when words of the sudden attack upon and battle in Dundee reached him. He had come as quickly as he could to the city’s aid, riding in on a flying Californian bear and with his battleaxe in hand, looking magnificent as ever as he slayed foes of Dundee left and right. After the night-long battle, his armor had been stained with blood, both human and goblin. He had washed out what he could from it, along with the filth from his hair and beard, but some of the stains were refusing to come out; he had left them to be dealt with another time for he had been in a hurry, knowing that other people needed help in the battle’s aftermath.

And was that the understatement of the century. The attack had been quick, but the damage done was behemothic: cracked roads, fireball craters, broken doors, busted walls, collapsed floors and roofs, knocked down pillars and statues. The blanket of snow that covered the city was scarlet from the blood of Dundee’s people and defenders. He had spent the hours from early sunset till early afternoon helping the clean-up, lifting the heaviest of stone debris and smashing the thickest of icy barriers, helping get people out of rubble and to safe locations in case the goblin armies struck again. He would have continued working, but one of the doctors had ordered him to rest so he wouldn’t strain his injuries from battle any further. So, he found himself a balcony and sat on a stone bench that was off to the side, not in the way of those still helping with the clean up. 

Resigned, he gazed out at the horizon as he had his battleaxe on his lap, cleaning and sharpening its twin-sided blade of cosmic steel. The battle had been mighty difficult and had taken its toll on his legendary weapon. The goblins were much, much more powerful than what he remembered from when he had last fought them, at the side of Angus McFife XII in the Battle of the Moon.

…Had it really been seventy years since then? Time flew by far too fast when one was immortal.

No matter. He was an old bloke, that was all it meant. Where was he again with his internal monologue? Ah, right. Goblins. Yes, they were much, much stronger this time around, managing to penetrate the citadel walls within an hour of arriving. The carnage in the rest of the city was thankfully limited, or else the death toll would have reached astronomical numbers. Even so, it was one of the greatest tragedies the Kingdom of Fife had faced in decades, if not centuries. (Any worse and the Hootsman could have compared it to the Unicorn Invasion of Dundee from 992.)

However, what the tragedy lacked in number of deaths, it made up for in other ways.

Suddenly, the double doors leading onto the balcony were banged open with a frustrated yell. The sudden noise made Hoots jump slightly, and he almost cut his hand on his own axe’s blade. He paused caring for his blade in favor of watching what happened next. 

“It’s not helping, can’t you see!?” The thirteen-year-old Crown Prince of Fife walked onto the balcony and into the Hootsman’s line of sight, distressed and frustrated and with heavy footsteps, the snow squeaking in protest beneath his boots. He was in a different set of armor than what he had worn during battle, this one much lighter and less restricting in mobility than the full battle set or ceremonial set.

A much lighter set of footsteps was heard before the Topazulon McGonagall VII (or was it the VI? The VIII?), the Herald of Dundee, ran out onto the balcony, following the prince. “Prince Angus, you can’t be discouraged after a mere six attempts—”

The young prince turned to the herald with a fiery glare. “Then how many times must I try!?” He demanded to know. When his question was met with silence from the herald, young Angus McFife huffed and turned away again, walking towards the edge of the balcony and looking at the city that surrounded the palace.

“As many as it takes,” the herald finally said, but it was a few moments too late. Angus was no longer listening.

The Hootsman watched the prince a moment, then looked to the herald. The immortal barbarian made eye contact with the royal scholar, exchanging a conversation without words. At the conclusion of it, the Hootsman gave a small nod, and the herald responded with a huff before looking to the prince, whose back was facing them.

“We shall return to this later,” the herald declared before heading back inside the palace, shutting the door behind him and leaving the Hootsman alone on the balcony with the Prince.

The Hootsman lasted maybe fifteen seconds of silence before rising from his seat and setting his axe down on the stone bench before approaching Angus. He walked over and stood next to the prince, brushing off the snow from the balcony’s battered balustrade and leaning against the railing, trying to think of what to say. Words never were his strongest suit, but this wasn’t a matter that could be solved with an axe, now was it?

“You didn’t get very far the first few times you tried picking up the Hammer, either,” Hoots said, turning his head to look at Angus. He had spoken after a small moment of quiet that felt far too long, but it had probably been rather short. Did time decide to slow down on him at random at the worst times?

“Hoots, not now,” Angus responded curtly, gaze focused on the horizon. “By comparison, wielding the Hammer is a jog across the courtyard.” A sigh, and then he turned to look to the Hootsman. “But that’s not the point.” The prince’s skin was a bit reddened, and the Hootsman knew it was from more than just the biting cold wind.

“What do they want you to do?” Hoots asked, l tilting his head slightly for a second to motion towards the balcony doors through which the Herald of Dundee had left.

“A speech. Father wants me to address the city about what the Kingdom plans to do in response to the attack.” Angus released a frustrated breath and gripped the handrail tightly. “Herald McGonagall says nothing will come out of it until I stop thinking about the battle.” He paused as he reached up with a hand to wipe something off of his cheek on the side that the Hootsman did not see. Then, he rested that hand on the railing once more before continuing. “But right now, I find it impossible to fill my head with battle plans or even just cute unicorns.”

The Hootsman didn’t know what to say. Words were never his strongest suit, and emotions even less so.

Thankfully, it appeared that the prince wasn’t looking for a response to that, for he then turned his head to face the barbarian. “Tell me,” Angus began, blinking a few times as if he had something in his eyes, “how do you do it?” If the prince’s eyes were a bit reddened, the barbarian made no comments; he knew better.

“Do what?” The Hootsman asked, confused.

“Always manage to put yourself back together,” Angus said. “Focus, no matter what’s happening.”

It was a fair question to ask, the Hootsman supposed — the barbarian had been alive for a long time, seen many things. He knew it didn’t get easier. It never did. One loss did not prepare you for another, did not make the next one hurt less, did not lessen emotions. It was part of why he despised those who said that seeing many deaths made it easier. Those people were liars.

What it did, however, was give him experience. The more he had seen deaths, again and again, the more he learned that he couldn’t drink away the pain, that he couldn’t bury it. Experience taught him that he just had to learn to continue living life with one less person around him, with one less ally, with one less friend.

He knew this was not the answer the prince was looking for, though. The prince was not looking for the long-term. No, young Prince Angus was looking for a way to temporarily relieve the pain at least, to bring the thought of his mother’s death at the hands of the goblins temporarily to the back of his thoughts rather than at the very forefront. A lot of people did this with drinking; Hoots was guilty of that many times, himself, but he knew better than to offer such a thing to the prince. Not only would the King of Dundee have the barbarian’s head on a spike if it happened, but the Hootsman would never forgive himself either. Attempting to drink away one’s sorrows led to only feeling worse later, not to mention the splitting headache that came with it.

He had a better idea, and it involved the cold white powder that blanketed most of the city and wasn’t cleared from the balcony.

“Hmmm…” the Hootsman hummed slightly, leaning forward and resting his arms along the railing, trying to think of the best way to do this. “There’s a certain ancient method. Your ancestor, Angus the First, taught it to me, and Ser Proletius taught it to him.”

The prince gave a doubtful huff and raised an eyebrow at the barbarian. “Are you going to have me go to the mountains and meditate for a fortnight like the druids?”

“Just because it’s ancient doesn’t mean it involves meditation,” the Hootsman said, slightly humored. He stood up a bit straighter, now having his hands leaning against the railing rather than his entire forearms. “The people of Unst have used it for centuries, too,” he continued, using the hand farther from the prince to gather up some bits of snow. “It always works…”

The Hootsman gave Prince Angus McFife XIII no warning before tossing a loose snowball right at the prince, causing him to stumble back in shock, using the railing for some stability.

“Hey!” The prince complained, wiping the snow from his face with a hand as he regained his footing. He was confused as to what the Hoots just happened.

The Hootsman just smiled cheekily in response, dusting off his hands. Though he was well accustomed to the cold, holding snow in his bare hands was still not fully comfortable. He also sincerely hoped that his plan was working, for if it wasn’t, then the barbarian would be in a whole new level of trouble.

“Oh, I’ll make you regret that!” Angus yelled once he came to his senses and realized what was going on, suddenly diving off to the side towards a small bank of snow, already grabbing at it to make a snowball.

The Hootsman reached over to grab some more snow off the balustrade, making his own snowball. He was only half-done with it when a snowball mashed itself into his beard at the level of his chin, causing him to splutter slightly so that he wouldn’t inhale snowflakes when breathing. By the time he recovered, the prince was no longer in his line of sight; a second later, another snowball made contact with the back of his head.

“Cheater!” he called out, turning around to whip the snowball behind him and at the prince.

“Wimp!” Angus called back, dodging the snowball. “That the best you’ve got!?” He threw the snowball but missed when Hoots ducked and dodged.

“Not even close!” The Hootsman grabbed two snowballs, one in each hand. He threw one and missed. As he was throwing the second one, a snowball hit him in the face again, causing his second throw to miss its mark as well.

The Hootman had no clue how long the snowball fight lasted.

At one point, the Hootsman ended up on his back on the floor of the balcony, laying in a bank of snow and pinned down by a prince that may have been half his size but sure had a powerful tackle.

“Do you surrender now?” Angus asked, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Like I ever will!” The Hootsman used an arm to catapult a half-made snowball at the prince’s face. He missed due to misjudging the trajectory, and the snowball sailed through the air next to Angus’s head instead.

Both he and the prince froze when they heard a gasp of shock from wherever the snowball landed. Angus quickly crawled off of the Hootsman and got to his feet. The Hootsman just sat up to look.

In the doorway leading onto the balcony stood the Herald of Dundee, his face in a comically shocked expression. Oh, and covered in snow. The herald very quickly turned tail and went back inside, shutting the doors once more.

Once the doors slammed shut, both Prince of Dundee and King of California burst out into slight laughs, unable to contain their amusement any longer. Oh, that had been a mighty struggle indeed, to not laugh at the herald’s expression.

After a moment of laughter, Angus held out a hand and helped the barbarian to his feet. The Hootsman accepted, even if he was perfectly capable of getting up on his own; it was the gesture that counted most, after all. What he did not expect, though, was the sudden hug he got from the prince once he was standing. Not that he complained; instead, he just hugged the prince back.

“Thank you, Hoots,” Angus said, pulling away from the hug. “You were right — it really works.” He then glanced down at his wet armor, and then at the doors. “I should probably go get changed and see what our dear city herald has planned.”

“If it’s stupid, tell me and we can use him for snowball target practice,” the Hootsman jokingly offered with a gesture towards the bits of snow on the balcony that they hadn’t massacred with their battle.

“Hoots, no offense, but I’m not the one who needs target practice here,” Angus said with a laugh. “I’ll see you at dinner?”

“So long as no mysterious hermits show up and kidnap me to Cowdenbeath, yeah.” Not that he planned to let himself get kidnapped.

The Hootsman walked over to the bench he had been on before, picking up his axe. He settled down with the axe in hand, going back to caring for his battle-worn blade. Angus had walked with him there, as if to ensure that the Hootsman didn’t slip on the balcony and crack his head open during the four steps he had to cross. Once the prince saw that Hoots was going to be fine, he gave the barbarian a small smile as a final thanks and turned to leave, heading towards the door.

The Hootsman stopped his polishing for a moment and leaned down to grab some snow from beneath the bench, but stopped when he saw the prince hold up a hand and shake his finger slightly while walking away, knowing full well what the Hootsman had planned to do. The barbarian shook his head to himself and dropped the half-formed snowball, shaking his hand out and going back to tend to his axe while the balcony doors opened and then closed shut, leaving the Hootsman alone once more, though perhaps a bit less lonely.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed!
> 
> Want to see some of my other works or request a story? Check out my tumblr [here](https://thedarkmetallady.tumblr.com/) and my prompt and request rules [here](https://thedarkmetallady.tumblr.com/PromptAndRequestRules).


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